The Prisoner (1979)

by Stine, Hank

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course we can.’ He smiled.

  ‘Good.’ She seemed satisfied. ‘Now, your order?’

  He lifted a brow. Number 7 bit her lip. ‘Coffee? You do have coffee, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss. Though we don’t get so much of a demand for it.’

  ‘Good. Coffee and a roll.’

  ‘What kind of roll?’

  ‘Any kind. It doesn’t matter. Choose one yourself.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you, Number Six.’

  ‘Steak and eggs.’

  ‘I didn’t know Englishmen ate steak and eggs.’

  ‘I picked it up in America, Number Seven.’

  ‘Aught to drink?’

  ‘Tea, please.’

  She went away.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘One of the less creditable episodes of my life.’

  ‘You’d rather not talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  She turned and stared out a window. ‘Look.’ She pointed.

  A group of women, mostly in their forties, were marching across the green, looking angry and carrying placards. At the distance it was impossible to read the legends.

  Her eyes met his. ‘You know, I don’t understand this place. Look over there.’

  A television camera stared at them from high on the far wall.

  ‘They know where we are and what we are doing and what we are saying. Your place, my place, all the houses I’ve been in, and every street corner, all have cameras and speakers. And yet, they’re looking for you, and they haven’t come to get you. Why is that?’

  Number 127 returned just then and they ate.

  Afterwards they went up the street towards her house.

  ‘It’s incredible, really, to think that this place exists. In the outside world, you’d never imagine it, not in a million years. Oh, some crackpot type who really believes in a “they” might. The kind who get their kicks seeing vast conspiracies behind every setback and pigmentation of skin. The kind of guy who watches The Fugitive and The Invaders and The F.B.I. But no one else would really take such a place seriously. And yet, being here, it all seems so inevitable. Insane, but inevitable.’

  ‘Yes, I had that impression myself.’

  ‘I mean, they never leave you alone and they never make sense, but they control you completely, and you never asked to be controlled or to be part of their system, but here you are, and there’s no way to resist or to escape. The Establishment’s Establishment, in a way. Disneyland with J. Edgar Hoover at the helm.’

  They rounded a corner and the mob of women was before them.

  They stood gathered around the bookstore window in an angry snarl of conversation. One of the placards turned full on:

  VILLAGERS FOR DECENT LITERATURE

  BAN SMUT!!

  PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT MUST GO!!

  One of the women detached herself from the mass and came towards them.

  It was Number 105, wearing her drab brown coat. Her face was pale and her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

  ‘Entschuldigen Sie, Nummer Sechs. No—’ she caught her breath. ‘I will the English speak. I must, Number Six. I must speak with you.’

  ‘I was just going,’ Number 7 said.

  ‘Is. Please. Is not necessary.’ The old woman stopped and clasped her hands. ‘Not necessary.’

  ‘No, really.’ She put on her glasses.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so.’ She pushed through the women and went into the bookstore.

  ‘Oh, Number Six, I’ve wanted to talk with you for long.’

  ‘I called out to you this morning.’

  ‘And I didn’t hear! How stupid. I’m so upset. Please, you seem like a kind man, a…modern man. I don’t like to ask—’

  ‘That’s all right. Let’s go this way. It’s quieter.’

  The sun came out from behind a cloud and suddenly the day was dazzling white.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, myself. I’m only a woman from the old country.’

  ‘What country?’

  ‘And these times, they’re different. Things are not what they were in my youth. They say it is progress and change. Maybe so, I don’t know these things. But the way I was raised was good enough for my mutter and grossmutter and it has been good enough for me. It’s these children I don’t understand. Do you?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s my daughter, Number Six. My liebling. She’s…she’s gone off and…She’s…’ The old woman began to cry.

  ‘In trouble?’

  ‘Ja. Exactly so. She has gotten herself with child.’

  ‘She has?’

  ‘Yes. It’s that awful Number Twenty-four. I told her not to hang around with him. Trash, that’s what he is. Him and that bunch he hangs around with. They don’t work, they don’t go to school, they just hang around and think up trouble. The devil makes work for idle hands. Many’s the time I’ve told her that. There’s the devil in that boy, I said. If only she’d listened.’

  They reached his walk.

  ‘Won’t you come in?’

  ‘Danke. Nein. It wouldn’t be right. But what am I going to do? You’re a man of the world. You’ve seen much of life. Tell me. Am I wrong? Is this not so much of a sin anymore? What is happening?’

  ‘Is he going to marry her?’

  ‘Him? That good for nothing! Never. I’m sure of it. If he’d been any good, it would never have happened in the first place. Only, tell me, God, what am I going to do?’

  ‘Have you consulted his parents?’

  ‘No. Should I? Tell me what you think.’

  He looked into her worn, peasant face. ‘Number One Oh five, I think that’s exactly what you should do.’

  ‘Danke. Danke, Number Six.’ She nodded to herself and went off down the lane.

  He opened the door.

  ‘Number Six?’

  There were five of them standing just inside the door. They all wore uniforms. And they all carried guns.

  ‘You are under arrest. Come with us.’

  Two

  On what charge?’

  ‘A complaint has been brought against you.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By a party who considers himself aggrieved.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It is not my place to know.’

  ‘Whose place is it?’

  ‘Those whose place it is to know such things.’

  ‘And when will I be advised of the nature of this charge?’

  ‘At the proper time.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘When it is deemed necessary.’

  ‘And who will decide it is necessary?’

  ‘The proper authorities.’

  ‘Just who are these “proper authorities”?’

  ‘Those who have been duly constituted.’

  ‘And who constituted them?’

  ‘The people.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘The people of this village. Now, you will come with me. There will be no further arguments.’

  They went out into the rain.

  Lack of mutuality…a capital offence…well, I mean…there’s never been anything like it before.’

  ‘Number Two’s orders.’

  ‘Well…’ The desk sergeant scratched behind an ear. ‘In that eventuality…yes.’

  Their eyes met. The sergeant’s lips were pursed in a faint, embarrassed smile. ‘I’m sorry, Number Six. Don’t mean to hold you up. But this is not our usual job of work. Not at all…quite different, indeed. Not like that lot over there.’ He pointed across the room.

  Number 24 sat on a bench next to a belligerent old gentleman. The old man had the clean, angry look of an IRA captain: bloodless lips, glittering eyes, taut skin. Number 24 had a large neb, wounded poet’s eyes, an olive complexion, and an expression of bewildered suffering.

  The old man cau
ght the sergeant’s gesture and glared, lip curling back in a sneer. ‘Fists like matured hams,’ he whispered, ‘for beating defenceless boys like you.’

  Number 24’s eyes grew wide and fearful.

  ‘Not like that lot at all,’ the sergeant repeated. ‘Just lurking about. More for their own good, really…’ He brought his lips together and unbuttoned his jacket pocket, extracting a ball point pen. He lay the pen on the desk next to a ledger, opened the ledger to a half-filled page and began to write.

  ‘Number…You are Number Six?’

  ‘That is not my name.’

  ‘My dear sir’—the sergeant assumed an expression of almost bovine patience—‘I am aware that your name is not “Number Six”. That is your official designation—as I’m sure you know. The question is: Are you or are you not known as “Number Six”?’

  He lifted a brow at the sergeant. ‘The question is: What do I wish to be known as? My name is—’

  ‘My good man!’

  ‘And I am not your man.’

  ‘Number Six!’

  ‘And I am not “Number Six”.’

  ‘What would you have me call you?’

  ‘By my name.’

  ‘But that would be impossible. You can see that, can’t you? Surely a sensible man like yourself can see that. So many men have the same name, but there is only one Number Six.’

  ‘I’ve been told that before.’

  ‘Then, what would you have me call you?’

  ‘What are men in my position usually called?’

  ‘But’—the sergeant’s eyebrows rose in astonishment—‘that would be most unmutual.’

  ‘But truthful.’

  ‘The truth can only be an embarrassment.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘You’re only making it harder on yourself, Number Six. Now—Number: Six. Charge: To be specified—’

  ‘When will it be specified?’

  The sergeant gave a patient, forbearing sigh. ‘I am hardly the one to know.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Now look here! I have my job and doubtless you have yours. Mine is to process people as speedily as possible. Nothing more. Now, may I get on with my work?’

  ‘As you like.’

  ‘Cell: Six.’ He turned to a constable: ‘Take Prisoner,The:ADayintheLife to cell six.’

  ‘No fingerprints?’

  The sergeant produced a document. ‘See. Here: your photo.’

  ‘Photos can be changed.’

  ‘So can fingerprints.’

  ‘I should have known. But, tell me, how can you be certain of my identity?’

  ‘They know everything. If they say you are “Number Six”, you are.’

  ‘And who are they?’

  ‘The monitors.’

  ‘What monitors?’

  ‘Number Six, I have no time for nonsense. Take him away.’

  ‘Be seeing you.’

  He was taken to a cell. The door opened, he was let in.

  Across the room (mounted above the tiny, barred window) was a television camera. Below the camera sat Number One Fifty-seven, the old tobacconist.

  He lifted his head, eyes dark and reddened. ‘Bonjour, Number Six,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this.’

  ‘And just what have you gotten me into?’

  The rabbity little man looked down at his hands. ‘I’ve been selling the marijuana.’

  ‘Selling dope?’

  ‘Oui. Just so. You understand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I brought it with me from my home. My father had smoked it’—he gave a little smile—‘and his father before him. All our family and our town.’

  ‘How did you come here?’

  ‘On a boat.’ He made a ducking motion.

  ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘An advertisement.’

  ‘What kind of advertisement?’

  ‘For a position.’ He seemed genuinely bewildered.

  ‘Don’t you find this village a bit peculiar?’

  ‘Je ne comprend, Number Six. These things are not of importance. It is important only that I brought these seeds’—his palms opened as if the seeds themselves lay within—‘and that I planted them and that it was wrong.’

  He sighed and his shoulders slumped. His hands came back to his sides. ‘I do not understand, but it is wrong. They tell me it is wrong. All my life I have done it. It brings a man relaxation and peace. It is one of the good things in life. Why do they always take away the good things? They take away alcohol. And women. They take away tobacco and money. They even take away God. Why they do this, I do not know.’ He looked up. ‘Do you understand, Number Six?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My father, my grandfather, even my priest. Could a thing be bad if a priest partook without harm? He was a very holy man—even the Bishop once spoke favourably of him. But they have arrested me for it. And here I am.’

  ‘And why—’

  ‘And you are here because it is believed you were one of my associates.’

  ‘One of your associates?’

  ‘So they think.’ Number 157 lowered his eyes.

  ‘Why do they believe that?’

  He made that peculiar ducking motion again and held out his hands. ‘It is my fault.’

  ‘Your fault?’

  ‘Number Twenty-four’s also. But really it is mine.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Long ago—before you came here—I lived in the house that is now yours. I built a compartment to hide it behind the shower.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I thought no one would look there. I made a mess. I am really not very good at these things. The room had to be repainted. I went to the hardware but the paint was so expensive. I have never been a rich man, you see.’ His spread fingers indicated poverty. ‘Not at all in the old country. And after we settled here, my wife became ill.’ He shrugged. ‘I bought some paint. It was the cheapest they had. A clearance, I think.’

  ‘Rohz?’

  ‘Oui, Rohz. I painted it and then I had’—he spoke depreciatingly—’some trouble with my heart.’ His hand moved up towards his chest. ‘I was in the hospital, you see. While I was there, it was decided you should be given my cottage. I was to be moved to one larger.’

  There was a crack of thunder outside.

  Number 157 started, and looked about anxiously. ‘I became agitated; I asked Number Twenty-four to move my crop for me. But he neglected it until you were here, and then it was too late. When they arrested me, they searched your house too, and it was there.’

  ‘A very pretty story, Number One Fifty-seven—’

  They turned.

  On the wall above the door was a television screen. Number 2 glared down at them from it. Light gleamed on his high, bald forehead.

  ‘—but hardly one to charm the court. I think the two of you had better come up with a better defence than that or we shall very soon be forced to forgo the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘Forgo?’

  ‘Don’t be coy, Number Six. You understand me quite well. The penalty for frequenting a place where narcotics are kept is: Death.’

  ‘I am hardly surprised.’

  ‘I wonder if you’ll be as smug when you face the firing squad?’

  He smiled without emotion.

  ‘But you’ll be well treated until then. You’re still a valuable commodity: no sense damaging the goods prematurely. And, since you’re deprived of the pleasures of your own kitchen, let me offer you the hospitality of mine.’

  ‘Is that proper?’

  ‘In this case.’

  ‘The menu?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He had, after all, been certain.

  ‘You may order now.’

  ‘Shrimp cocktail, a green salad, welsh rarebit, red wine—not too sweet or dry—a sherbet for dessert.’

  ‘And you, Number One-Fifty-seven? What would you like?’

  ‘For me?’ He was astonished. ‘
Nothing thank you. My stomach…’ His hands spread. ‘I could not eat.’

  ‘Perhaps later? No? You’re certain? Very well. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ And Number 2’s image faded from the screen.

  There was the sound of rain and a cool wet breeze came through the window.

  He turned around.

  Number 157 had sat down on a cot. ‘Oh Number Six. They are going to shoot us.’ He shook his head in distress. ‘I just know they are going to shoot us.’

  Do the defendants,’ the judge said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, a stern figure in periwig and robes, ‘wish to make any statement in their behalf?’

  ‘Excusez moi, your honour.’ Number 157 made the small ducking motion of his head. ‘Je ne comprend’—’

  ‘Please use English in addressing this court.’

  ‘Je regrette—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, your honour. I can speak English, yes. I am upset. I become confused…’ He spread his hands in abjuration. ‘I speak in French.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. Take your time. This court assures you a fair trial.’

  ‘Well your honour’—he looked timidly up at the judge—‘I want to say: This man, Number Six’—he pointed—‘is innocent. He knows nothing. It was accident these things were at his house.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The judge turned his head. ‘Yes, what is it, Number’—he hesitated—‘Six?’

  ‘Aren’t these proceedings somewhat irregular?’

  The judge assumed a kind of patriarchal indulgence. ‘Number Six, I’ve heard a number of things about you. I won’t say I believe them; I won’t say I don’t. But I will say this: You wouldn’t have to ask me that question and you wouldn’t be here today to ask it, if you had been more mutual in the past. The manner in which we conduct these affairs here is clearly set out in a course on the charter and government of this Village which the public was offered an opportunity to take last month.’

  There had been such a course. He remembered the announcement distinctly.

  ‘The procedure is quite simple,’ said the judge. He lifted two stacks of IBM cards. ‘These’—he hefted the one on the right—‘contain all the information relevant to your case. These’—he indicated the second stack—‘Number One Fifty-seven’s. We will insert these, together with any facts you might care to present, into a computer. The computer will weigh the evidence and render an objective judgement.’